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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288610">perfect harmony</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatterinSeconds/pseuds/ShatterinSeconds'>ShatterinSeconds</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Getting Together, Ghost Keith (Voltron), M/M, Musician Keith (Voltron), Musician Lance (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Very fluffy, ghost au, i cannot stress enough how little angst there is in this fic, loosely based on julie and the phantoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:41:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,080</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288610</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatterinSeconds/pseuds/ShatterinSeconds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Think of it as thanks for allowing me to stay and not getting rid of me.” Keith slides the coffee back across the counter. </p><p>“Wait,” Lance pauses and raises an eyebrow, “were you afraid I was gonna perform an exorcism on you or something?” </p><p>“I did.”</p><p>“Hm, maybe I should have,” Lance mumbles, bringing the mug to his nose and breathing in.</p><p>Keith remains unimpressed. “I could haunt you for real.”</p><p>“Spooky.” Lance grins and takes a sip of his now perfect coffee.</p><p>(or Lance buys a cassette tape at a thrift store and ends up with a ghost roommate and eventual boyfriend)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>389</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>perfect harmony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Julie and the Phantoms is one of my new favorite shows and I knew I had to write a Klance AU out of it. In my initial outlining stage, this fic was closer to the show but now it’s practically a thing of its own. Really the only parts that are similar is that Keith appears because Lance plays his demo and also appears to everyone else while playing. </p><p>Hope you enjoy it! And happy early Halloween!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lance taps the jeweled cassette case on his thigh. A slight crack streaks across the front, marring the band’s logo. The paper cover is clearly hand-made, colored with a somewhat dried up purple marker and outlined in black ink, but Lance was drawn to it a few hours ago. He had been sorting through some new donations at the thrift store he works at part time and stumbled across a case of old cassettes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s also obviously some band’s demo. That fact only further intrigued Lance. They probably failed, maybe they didn't even make it out of the garage they practiced in, but that doesn’t mean their music is not worth listening to. Lance has found hidden gems before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blows the dust off his old cassette player that he never had the heart to throw out and brought with him from his parents’ house. Scuffed stickers litter the surface spanning many years, some placed on by his mom when she was young and some from his siblings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the tape clicks into the slot, it takes a few seconds for something to happen. Then quick taps from someone on drums, followed by low notes on a guitar, echo through the speakers. Lance’s fingers match the beat on his thighs. It’s a somewhat familiar rhythm, which is especially interesting for a band he’s never heard about, but he already feels it sticking with him. Even before he hears the lead singer’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is honestly jaw dropping. Smooth but with an underlying hint of a rasp that only adds another layer into the vocals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heat rises to Lance’s cheeks the longer he listens. “Oh, his voice is beautiful,” Lance whispers to himself in the empty apartment space. It’s something that will definitely travel with him into his dreams, and he can’t be mad about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Blade, huh?” Lance reads the slanted writing on the cover. “What a dumb band name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as the next song on the demo starts to play, cold air blasts through Lance and dances in his hair. His skin crawls as gooseflesh prickles his bare arms. A new, groggy voice calls out behind him. “What the fuck just happened?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jumping a good foot in the air at the unexpected sound, Lance whips his entire body around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“FUCKING HELL! WHO ARE YOU!?” he shrieks when he sees a stranger in his apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Lance hadn’t been sitting on the ground, he would have fallen on his ass. His heart wildly pumps in his chest, threatening to break free and burst away from this terror. Lance doesn’t even have a calm mind to appreciate how attractive this man actually is; he just frantically points at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pinched expression rests on the man’s face as he swings his gaze around. A mess of wild black hair falls to his shoulders, bangs hang in front of his eyes and shadow them. Ripped black jeans clad his legs and he wears the stupidest cropped red leather jacket for the cooling fall weather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man seems unperturbed by Lance’s outburst, though he minutely flinches, and he crosses his arms. That glare pierces Lance. He shivers again, chills racing down his spine and not just because his apartment feels ten degrees cooler. A layer of frost drapes over Lance when the stranger speaks again. “What are you doing in my apartment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Your</span>
  </em>
  <span> apartment?” Lance sputters and regains some control over his body and mind. He scrambles to his feet. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> been paying rent for the last year, buddy; it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And where’s my stuff?” the man continues, not listening to Lance. He steps away to start venturing around the living area. Where the light catches onto his body, the sunrays appear to pass directly through him. The outline of his body shimmers, and the color on the outer edges of his hair almost fades into the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance clutches a hand over his heart, wrinkling his shirt, as he tries to calm his breathing and think through this situation. His phone is nowhere close to him and Lance isn’t sure he wants to take his eyes off the stranger to try to find it. Who would he call anyways? The police? Pidge? The psych ward because he’s hallucinating? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he decides on a different, more diplomatic approach. He hopes it doesn’t get him killed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello!” Lance wildly waves his arms around to catch the guy’s wandering attention. “Who the hell are you!?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a tilt of his head, the man seems to finally realize Lance is talking to him. “Uh, Keith Kogane?” he supplies with a shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance narrows his eyes. “Why do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound so unsure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know; I’m confused.” Finally emotions crack through, almost exploding onto Keith’s face. Exasperation, frustration, and possibly defeat. He drags a hand through his long hair, pulling his bangs off of his forehead only to let them flop back down when he drops his hand. Which smacks against his thigh, one of the only sounds in the apartment besides Lance’s breathing and cassette player fumbling through another song. “I know I died, but I didn’t expect to become a ghost right afterwards. And for everything to be gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance has to blink three times before it registers. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I died; don’t make a big deal out of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You--don’t make a big deal out of it?” Lance stammers with a frantic shake of his head. “Are you kidding me? Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>the hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, Lance definitely needs to get in touch with some doctors. It’s finally happened. He’s snapped. Hello, 911, how do you exorcise a hot ghost?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biting his lower lip, Keith pauses for a moment though his gaze continues to search the apartment space before they land on the cassette player. His eyes light up in recognition. “I was lead singer for The Blade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never heard of them or you,” Lance immediately replies despite it not being the full truth. Fingers curl against his thigh because how could he not have recognized </span>
  <em>
    <span>that voice </span>
  </em>
  <span>immediately?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re playing our demo,” Keith points out. Lance doesn’t have to follow his hand to know it’s directed at the case, which had been flung out of his hand during the initial fright--not that that has lessened any less either--and slid until it hit the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if tied to a tether, Keith walks over, bending down to pick up the empty case. His lips tilt, somewhat upwards, probably happy to recognize something but maybe it’s mostly with nostalgia. Another crack streaks across the cover now and Keith thumbs over both of them as if he wants to memorize all the new imperfections.. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance ducks his head and crosses his arms. “I always thought this place had rockstar energy,” he muses, mostly to himself. When he lifts his head, he meets Keith straight on, a small quirk to his lips. “Didn’t know it was rented by a guy who has a mullet though. Like a Billy Ray Cyrus reject.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s dark brows furrow, the corners of his mouth strained. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s an insult; feel free to be insulted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Lance can wait for any sort of amusing reaction, he spots his phone left on the kitchen counter. In a few quick strides he reaches the kitchen and quickly returns his gaze back to Keith. “Keith Kogane, right?” he asks, already typing the name into the search engine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah--wait, what the hell is that?” Adrenaline shoots through Keith’s body. His shoulders become taut, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists and held protectively in front of his face. The cassette case drops back to the ground, the hinge breaking and splitting it in two. “Are you trying to ghostbust me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my phone, weirdo,” Lance says, showing him the web page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith scoffs but lowers his guard enough that it only looks like he’s going to bolt any second and not send Lance into a coma. His eyes narrow at the screen, trying to read the tiny text. “Nice try, I’m not an idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weirdo,” Lance mumbles again, feeling it’s best to ignore it right now and focus. Google has never failed him before but he still doesn’t expect that he’ll be able to stumble across a wiki entry or anything on the ghost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet after one search Lance finds what he’s looking for, and he raises an eyebrow at the article before him. Apparently, The Blade had been the precursor to one of the more popular groups of the late eighties and early nineties, Galra. Whoever wrote the article for Galra’s thirtieth anniversary back in 2018 had dug deep. A grainy photo of all the old band members is embedded halfway through. Keith stands in the front with his stupid hairstyle and no smile on his face. However, the ghost-Keith before Lance has a fresh scar on his cheek that the version in this picture doesn’t have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Must have been from the motorcycle accident that ended his life, Lance realizes as he reads on. A drunk driver ran a red light; it wasn’t Keith’s fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance gulps when he shifts his attention back to Keith. “So what year do you think this is?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“1985?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuts his eyes tight at the confirmation and breathes in through his nose. “Try again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith sends him a flat, unamused stare. “Why don’t you just tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“2020,” Lance breathes out. It feels like the greatest secret of the universe has been revealed by the way Keith seems to freeze in time--which is actually entirely accurate for Keith’s situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Counting on his fingers, Keith’s eyes widen the higher the number climbs. “It’s been thirty-five years!?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Lance confirms. He slides his phone into his back pocket. “You should be reaching the nice ripe age of sixty soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith ignores his jab and finally breaks away from whatever hold Lance has had him in these past minutes. He scrambles to the far corner of Lance’s apartment, nudging the couch a few inches to the right and moving the side table Lance had grabbed off the street a few months ago. “Where was it?” Keith mumbles and begins stomping around on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re gonna disturb the people downstairs. I swear to go--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hollow sound rings out close to the baseboard near the back of the room. Kneeling down, Keith digs his fingers under the floorboard to pry it up. He manages to lift up two pieces by the time Lance rushes over and tugs at his arm--or at least tries too. His hand passes through Keith’s shoulder without much luck deterring Keith from his task.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t touch me,” he snaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then don’t tear up my apartment, asshole!” Lance throws his hands in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax, it’s been loose for decades.” From the newly created hole, Keith brings up a few items, a journal of some kind and a backpack. “My grab ‘n go stash, plus my most personal possessions,” he answers Lance’s unspoken questions. “I may have been a little paranoid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You kept a diary?” Lance arches an eyebrow when he sees Keith flip through the book. The pages are all filled with scribbles, mostly written in black ink. Some words are furiously crossed out and others are smudged where there was a rush to write them. Lance’s eyesight isn’t good enough to read anything from this distance--not that Keith’s handwriting is all that legible anyways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up at him through his fringe, Keith takes a moment to reply, probably wondering if clarifying is even worth it. “It’s lyrics, my song journal.” Keith sets the floorboards back into place and Lance breathes a sigh of relief for his security deposit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cool, cool,” Lance replies and rocks back and forth on his feet. He stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “So you gonna head out soon or…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While his backpack rests against his feet, Keith stands and gestures to himself and his somewhat translucent body. “Does it look like I have any other place to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, you don’t want to haunt old friends, old bandmates?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not particularly.” Keith’s answer is clipped, eyes trained on his songbook. His shoulders are taut again, not in fear but there are definitely some thick walls, and Lance decides to drop the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a quiet groan, Lance throws his head back and twists around to gather his thoughts without Keith’s pretty gaze boring into him. Maybe if Lance just closes his eyes the ghost will disappear and he can return to a normal life. But his body deflates when he hears Keith unzipping a pocket on his bag. He has to bite back a loud sigh. Still turned away from Keith, kicking at the floor, Lance asks, “Are you going to cause me problems? You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>more of a Casper, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance spins around to be met with a confused look from Keith. With a sigh, he lets the ghost win. “If you don’t fuck with anything, I guess you can stay.” Then, against his better judgement, he holds out his hand. “I’m Lance, by the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard not to gasp when a chill shoots across every nerve in Lance’s body once Keith grasps his hand. He manages to swallow it. Keith sends him a tight, though pleasant, smile. “Not like there’s much of a choice, but thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance opens his eyes to first be blinded by mid-morning light and then discovers Keith’s face inches from his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good, you’re up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“GAH!” Lance fumbles in the sheets with a shriek, becoming all twisted. “Will you stop doing that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So maybe Lance thought after a week Keith would just disappear back into the ether--that whatever mental breakdown episode Lance was experiencing would have ended. Yet here Keith remains and Lance believes less and less that this is an internal problem and is more likely that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>has a ghost haunting him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sleep too late. You’re missing half the day already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have night shifts most weeks.” It’s too early in the morning to be dealing with this crap. With a sleepy yawn, Lance asks, “Don’t tell me you’re bored?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I already went for a jog,” Keith tells him. Lance guesses there’s one good thing about being a ghost, you don’t sweat. He looks the exact same as yesterday and the day before and really every day that Lance has known Keith so far. But his hair is messier, if that’s even possible, and clearly hasn’t grasped the concept of a hairbrush. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, first, get out of my room. And second, don’t watch me while I sleep, Edward Cullen!” Lance furiously points at his bedroom door but Keith stays rooted in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith shrugs. “Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance slaps a hand to his face, dragging it down as he glares. “Do I have to do everything around here?” He leaps up from the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor, and herds Keith toward the door. “You’re gonna learn about current pop culture whether you like it or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no,” Keith drawls, “I’m trembling with fear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance slams the door in his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a shower and breakfast, Lance plops himself on the worn couch to spend one of his free days watching movies. Keith hovers next to him and Lance rolls his eyes, patting the couch cushion next to him as an invitation. Honestly, Keith’s not a vampire; he doesn’t need permission to </span>
  <em>
    <span>sit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It stirs some movement within the ghost and he plops himself down on the other end of the couch--his body doesn’t even make a dent in the cushions. Keith’s feet just miss brushing Lance’s thigh. If he remained solid, Lance doesn’t doubt he would have a big toe occasionally poking him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are we going through three decades worth of movies and TV?” Keith asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance waves around a scrap piece of paper. Titles cover both sides. “I’ve created a list. I’m organized like that.” He had racked his brain in the shower for the most quotable movies he could think of--as well as some of his personal favorites and what he thinks Keith would be into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In summary, Keith has missed of fuck ton of spectacular media.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unimpressed, Keith tilts his head, pressing it against the back of the couch and ruffling his hair. “I’ve seen your bedroom; you’re not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance sticks out his tongue. “We won’t be able to get through everything right now. But we’ll start with the major stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith swiftly grabs the paper from Lance’s long fingers and studies it. With Keith leaning in so quickly, Lance doesn’t even have time to defend himself before his hand is left empty. Keith holds it in front of his face; the paper crinkles under his touch</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So they made eight more </span>
  <em>
    <span>Star Wars</span>
  </em>
  <span> movies? And like a thousand more </span>
  <em>
    <span>Star Trek</span>
  </em>
  <span> series?” Keith finally says as he lowers the paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty much sums it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flips the list over and grimaces as his eyes fly down the page. “What the fuck is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lemonade Mouth</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
  <em>
    <span>High School Musical... </span>
  </em>
  <span>there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>three </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them?” Keith looks at Lance with a flat stare. “These sound stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re Disney channel </span>
  <em>
    <span>classics</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Lance explains, plucking the list out of Keith’s hands and turns on the TV. “You’ve missed so much; it’s kinda sad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to regret this,” he says, monotone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance waves away his concerns. “Just shut up and watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite Lance’s insistence on how critical the Disney channel movies are for Keith to understand the twenty-first century, they start with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Star Wars</span>
  </em>
  <span> prequels</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The beauty of having already seen them, and every movie on the list, a few hundred times is not minding Keith’s running commentary. In fact, it’s added entertainment, especially when he almost throws a silent fit over Jar Jar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance also learns that Keith’s favorite character is Han Solo, and he really doesn’t have the heart to tell him what happens in the new trilogy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you got a little bit of--” Amused, Keith reaches over to brush a bit of popcorn off Lance’s mouth. Lance flinches at the unexpected touch, the bone chilling coldness, and his free hand automatically wraps around Keith’s wrist to pull him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cold seeps into his hand, not as unpleasant this time, but it jerks Lance back into reality. Eyes leaving the TV, where Anakin, Padme and Obi Wan fight some arena monsters, they lock onto his hand holding Keith and not passing through. Not falling onto the couch cushion below with little resistance. Keith, on the other hand, isn’t bothered; he just patiently waits for Lance to release him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can touch you,” Lance says as he works through his thoughts. “Why can I touch you now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I’m allowing it,” Keith replies. “See?” Suddenly, Lance’s hand smacks onto the couch. He scowls up at the ghost and shakes out the sting in his fingers. “I can control who and what I interact with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t allow me before,” Lance casually says. He’s intrigued by the change--and if it will last. “Does this mean you’re more comfortable around me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m getting there,” Keith replies honestly much to Lance’s shock. “You’re not a half bad roommate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You certainly got the better end of the deal. ‘Cause I got stuck with a freeloading ghost,” Lance grumbles. The movie is nothing but background noise. Keith isn’t even pretending to pay attention, but neither is Lance. “The polite thing to do would be paying for half the rent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get to job searching right away. They’ll love me,” Keith says with an eye roll. He picks up a piece of popcorn, flicking it at such a precise angle that it bops Lance in the nose. It bounces onto the floor and Lance is one hundred percent forcing Keith to pick that up later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, Lance lines up his own piece in retaliation only to realize it’ll just fly straight through Keith. It’s not worth wasting a good piece for little gain. Ghosts take the fun out of everything. Placing the popcorn in his mouth instead, Lance says, “Yeah, no other applicants would even compare to a pretty ghost-boy like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corner of Keith’s mouth twitches before smoothing out again. “That so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothin’ but the truth.” Lance pokes Keith’s cheek until the ghost turns his head. “Now watch the movie; I don’t want to have to explain things when you’re confused.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance wakes up a few days later to Keith pouring his own cup of coffee. It wasn’t so much the clinking of cups that alerted him or the timed drips of the coffee percolating. No, somehow soft murmurs of a song slowly crept into his dreams and pulled him out. Keith hums under his breath, serenading the coffee pot with a familiar song that Lance can’t place the name too--but it definitely hadn’t been written in this century. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rubbing his eyes, Lance blinks a few times at the scene before him until it sinks in. “Can you even drink coffee?” he says, voice rough from a long night at the diner and little sleep.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, his words startle Keith, whose shoulders visibly jerk. The song abruptly cuts off and the ghost swings around to see Lance leaning against the door frame. “Oh, I forgot.” Keith lifts his hand from the mug handle, bringing it in front of the window and the steady beam of light. His fair skin shimmers with slight translucency. He sets his sights on Lance. “Do you want it then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Lance’s wordless nod, Keith pours the coffee, and the steam floats through his body without care. Lance graciously accepts the cup when Keith walks closer to him but almost gags at the bitter taste. At least he’s awake now. “No sugar, Keith? Really?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance is pretty sure there was sugar in the 1980s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Keith’s attention is caught on something else. He peers at Lance, almost unsettlingly so, and slightly angles his head to the side. His long bangs fall in the same direction to give Lance a nice view of startling violet-gray eyes. Lance almost slaps his own face in fear of a bug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that stubble?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s what happens when you’re a grown-ass adult,” Lance snips back. Usually, he rolls out of bed and directly into the shower. Keith’s voice had called to him this time, however, breaking his routine. Keith is always breaking Lance’s perfectly constructed routine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Keith reaches out, hand rubbing against Lance’s cheek. Lance remains still but his eyes pop wide open at the action. The temperature of Keith’s touch is biting and pinching, yet his caresses are gentle as they lightly drift across his jawline. Lance can’t help shivering. Whether it’s from the frostbite touch or just Keith’s gentleness, he’s not sure. Lance’s eyes flicker down towards Keith’s hand before lifting back up to his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s weird on you,” Keith says after a moment, brows furrowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for your uncalled for opinion.” Lance’s nose scrunches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s cheeks pink. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Just unexpected, different.” Dropping his hand from Lance’s cheek, he steps out of Lance’s personal bubble. “One scoop or two?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re coffee; how do you like it?” Keith has made his way back to the cabinets, and Lance watches his back muscles shift under his shirt as he reaches up to the top shelf for sugar. How is he so familiar with Lance’s kitchen layout already? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turns back around, a small smile appears on his face and he nods in confirmation. “That’s easy to remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to,” Lance insists. He tries to take the sugar jar from Keith but the ghost holds on tight. He’s too stubborn for his own good. At this rate, it’ll just end up as a broken container on the floor and Lance with a broom in his hands. He also would rather not have ants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Keith wins the coffee battle, Lance settling down on one of the bar stools with a huff, he says, “Think of it as thanks for allowing me to stay and not getting rid of me.” Keith slides the coffee back across the counter. “I should help out around here more; someone needs to do the dishes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try my best!” Lance exclaims though he’s not actually disgruntled by the comment. It’s true. The dishes from a week’s worth of meals are starting to climb out of the sink. “Wait, were you afraid I was gonna perform an exorcism on you or something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, maybe I should have,” Lance mumbles, bringing the mug to his nose and breathing in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith remains unimpressed. “I could haunt you for real.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spooky.” Lance grins and takes a sip of his now perfect coffee.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look worse than usual.” Pidge watches Lance over the top of her laptop. He pours a refill of coffee into a late night customer’s cup before giving her a death stare--and then briefly angles it at the customer who chuckles into their drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, there are dark bags under his eyes that no skincare routine is able to erase. And he has been a little lax on moisturizing lately, with all of his and Keith’s late night movies and falling asleep on the couch, only to later wake up with a blanket from his bed draped over him. Today though, Lance is at least having a good hair day so he has a little pep in his step.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Pidge. I’ll add it to the list of terrible compliments I got today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The diner Lance works at is the perfect place to host all types of night owls, including Pidge. Midterms took up most of her time these past couple weeks though and Lance hasn’t seen her since Keith appeared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neighbors fighting again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kinda,” Lance mutters, not quite listening. “Hey, are ghosts real? Or is that another one of those things humans like to believe in but are in no way scientifically possible?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pidge lowers the screen of her laptop, interest piqued. “Where’s this coming from?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to make sure I’m not going crazy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is what he wants to say. Instead, he shrugs. “Curious. Watched a ghost hunting show last night. It freaked me out.” Keith has finally felt comfortable to watch TV on his own; there are all sorts of weird things queued up on Lance’s Netflix now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, I’m not the right person to ask,” Pidge admits, which isn’t much help. If Pidge doesn’t know anything, then Lance is screwed. He contemplates this as he works some elbow grease magic on a coffee ring stain that has been there since the morning shift. “But hey, at least you’re not in a haunted apartment. That should give you some peace of mind.” She laughs at her own joke but Lance can’t even crack a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha, yeah,” Lance trails off. He lifts his head suddenly and fishes his phone from his apron pocket. “Actually one more thing, what do you think of him?” Lance swipes to a picture he took of Keith a couple days ago--he’s smiling, hair splayed where he lays his head on the arm rest, and Lance couldn’t help himself. He got shit for taking it afterwards, but it had been worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A white, rectangular glow reflects off of Pidge’s glasses when he turns the photo towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god, were you looking for a hookup on Grindr again?” she asks with a sharp snort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. But is the picture alright; can you see him?” He holds the phone so close to her face that Pidge has to lean back. Her hands hold onto the counter in order to not fall off the stool. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her brows furrow and she lifts her eyes away from the picture for a brief moment. “If this is another glasses joke, I’m gonna throttle you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just answer.” Lance sighs. “Please; it’s important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I can see him,” Pidge finally answers. “He looks just like your type, edge lord extreme. Bet you love that mullet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh thank god,” Lance mutters, too quiet for her to hear, “I’m not going crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just use protection. Safety first and all that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance sputters, face flushed. He pockets his phone before he drops it, or worse, his manager catches him. “I’m not actually--yes, thank you, Pidge, for telling me what sex ed in ninth grade failed to do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A customer looking to order ends their conversation. Lance busies himself with work. The normal sounds of Pidge’s fingers flying over her laptop’s keyboard and the diner’s cook making all sorts of clanging noises manage to ground him a little. If Pidge can see Keith and not a random picture of his empty couch, then at least it means Lance isn’t hallucinating. He has the real deal, a fully fledged ghost roommate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone needs to put a warning label on cassette tapes for potential hauntings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Lance passes by Pidge again, he taps his fingers on the counter, alerting her to his presence. “Hey, don’t tell Hunk I haven’t been sleeping well; you know he’ll rush over and play mother hen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunk is currently traveling around the world to become acquainted with new cuisines, having landed an apprenticeship with a famous chef. Lance hasn’t seen his best friend in person for almost six months, and while he desperately wants to hang out with Hunk not through video chat, he’d never live with himself if he pulled Hunk away from a once and a lifetime opportunity.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lips are sealed.” She may lock her lips and throw away the key but Lance can feel her heavy gaze as he moves to greet a new customer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance has to stop feeling shocked when he comes home from work. Keith might not be a poltergeist but he is certainly a restless ghost, and, unfortunately for Lance, his main form of entertainment is Lance’s personal belongings. He really needs to get Keith a social life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carding a frustrated hand through his hair, Lance bites back an annoyed groan. Keith glances up when the door slams closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you tell me you write songs?” he says, ignoring the expression on Lance’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I don’t.” Lance snatches his songbook out of the ghost’s hands. Keith is too slow to respond with anything but a disgruntled ‘hey!’ “Why didn’t you tell me you don’t understand privacy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark eyes study his face. “They’re really good, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t listen to nosy people’s opinions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith soldiers on. “You play too, right? I’ve seen the guitar and the sheet music.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance drops his scowl; the songbook hangs loose in his hand. “Yeah I do--or did. I don’t play for others much anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a minute of silence when Lance does not provide further elaboration, Keith says, “I’m sorry I looked. Curiosity kind of drove me crazy.” His shoulders hunch, eyes on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Any energy Lance had been building, preparing for a fight, drains out of him. It had been partially Lance’s fault for leaving it out in plain sight. He had felt a buzz to look at it again, to see if any of his songs can still hold up x amount of years later and forgot to return it to under his mattress. Too many songs were about his old girlfriends or boyfriend that left him for one reason or another; a few have potential. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine.” Lance sighs. He’s glad Keith has enough tact to not make fun of any of them. “At least someone else can appreciate them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I asked, would you play for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance arches an eyebrow. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you going to ask?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith uncurls his legs, standing from the floor and walks through the wall, not even bothering with the door except on his return. The sight shocks Lance at first, mostly because despite the fact that Keith is a ghost, he doesn’t do many ghostly things. When he returns, Keith has Lance’s guitar in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds it between them and for the first time in a long time Lance itches to grab onto the instrument. But ultimately he waits for Keith. “Will you serenade me, loverboy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, when he puts it like that… “Hm, as you wish,” Lance answers far more easily than he would have if anyone else had asked. When he takes the guitar, he blows off a thin layer of dust before he sits on the ground and rests it comfortably against his crossed legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith snaps his fingers. “Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Princess Bride</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance grins before returning his focus on the guitar. “See, you’re picking up pop culture fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The strings cut into the pads of Lance’s fingers. Any calluses he built up over the years have disappeared. Which means his fingers will undoubtedly be sore after this, but he can’t refuse Keith, not those dark eyes or quirking lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Lance begins to sing, he starts out quiet. He probably should have started with some vocal warm-ups but no one wants to listen to those. A red tinge of embarrassment colors his cheeks as he concentrates on the page before him and deciphering his lyrics. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith remains a calm and attentive presence beside him. Not once does that intense gaze leave Lance’s face. Surprisingly, it helps build the confidence inside of him. Lance’s voice grows louder, reaching the chorus and keeping with the rhythm. Part of Lance wants to make Keith proud. To show him how important it is to be revealing a side of himself that hasn’t left the confines of his bedroom and one low-viewed YouTube video.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance always knew he had a weak spot for pretty boys.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith scoots closer to Lance’s side. His fingers trace the chorus written on the crinkled page before his voice joins in. Lance grins at the new sound, turning his head to meet Keith’s gaze. His hands have already memorized the notes and his mind retains the lyrics; he doesn’t need the paper anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their voices mix together in harmony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Lance strums the last note, the apartment settles into silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans closer. He can’t feel Keith’s breath on his skin but instead he imagines it as the cold air coming from Keith’s corporeal body. An itch tells Lance to do it, bridge the gap and probably ruin the perfect dynamic they have fallen into with only minor hiccups. Any potential disastrous future outcomes do not matter to Lance in this moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can listen to his heart, Keith is the one who pulls back first. Lance has to wipe the frown off his face before Keith sees it. But the ghost’s mind is definitely somewhere else, eyes vacant, body tense, that it doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever momentarily caught Keith’s attention seems to have disappeared as his intense gaze focuses back on Lance. Slight color warms the ghost’s pale skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was hot,” Lance whispers, despite nobody else being in the apartment. It’s a secret that can’t leave the space separating them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’d make a good team.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That should be my line.” Lance huffs in a quick laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were better than I expected,” Keith tells him plainly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow, great confidence you had in me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s gaze is unwavering and he grips Lance’s shoulders. If he wants to shake Lance to get the compliment to sink in, he can. “You’re good, okay? You should keep up with your music this time. Don’t let talent go to waste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Lance replies, a little sheepishly as he palms the back of his neck. “I’ll think about it.” He begins to play a few lazy notes on his guitar as Keith sits back to listen, satisfied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the inside, Lance glows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pidge has been sending Lance articles about ghosts and other paranormal activity since their conversation in the diner. With every new article and personal account he reads, Lance thanks whoever for sending him Keith instead of some type of demon ghost. Having his heart race every time he forgets how attractive Keith is shines in comparison to actually being </span>
  <em>
    <span>haunted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if said ghost fills his Netflix with cryptid content and bad horror movies--not to mention Lance’s internet search history--and doesn’t clean up after himself after he’s done rummaging despite being immaculate with the household chores and accidentally uses Lance’s guitar while Lance is trying to Facetime with his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nice, though, to have a roommate. To have someone to share his life with, share his interests. Pidge and Hunk are so busy with their own lives now and their future careers that sometimes Lance feels that he’s left alone on the sidelines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith helps him clean up after dinner. Not that Lance had to cook for more than himself but with all his late night shifts, the dishes in the sink have been piling up again. Sometimes Lance will come home to the floor being swept or vacuumed or the dishwasher fully loaded. His life would truly be a mess without Keith.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lately, something has been off in their dynamic. The apartment is cold when he returns from work as if the energy around Keith has seeped into every crevice. Lance watches Keith closely when he’s around now. The paranormal articles have not helped his imagination, causing him to wonder if Keith is slowly but surely becoming one of those feral paranormal creatures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This vacantness about Keith started when they sang together; Lance wonders if Keith clued in on the fact that Lance was thinking about kissing him. He’d been subtle though and mind reading cannot be a power Keith has. That would be unfair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Water splatters Lance’s shirt. “Hey!” he exclaims, glaring at the culprit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith shrugs. A smirk sits on his face. “You were getting lost in your head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Concentrate on drying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am; you’re the one that’s doing a shoddy job washing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh please, I just bet you were the dish washing champion when you were alive.” Lance chuckles but his skin freezes, breath fogging in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of the corner of his eye, Lance spots Keith’s trembling hands. The plate drops through them and shatters on the ground. Thousands of shards spread out across the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keith! Are you ok--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith cups his scarred cheek and cries out. His body crumples to the ground; he curls in on himself. With his back pressed up against the lower cabinets, Keith’s body shakes so hard that it rattles the doors. Little gasps escape from his mouth as if his body tries to catch its breath even though he doesn’t need air anymore. Even his image seems to fade, flicker maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s body remains rooted in place until his heart takes over and he scrambles to be by Keith’s side. Plate shards cut into his feet but he doesn’t care. He kneels down next to him, giving him space but letting Keith know he’s not alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything will be alright,” Lance tells him with utter confidence. His expression holds no room for argument. “Can I hold you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a minute for Keith to respond and Lance waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yeah,” Keith stutters, eyes clenched tight. Once permission is given, Lance wraps his arms around the ghost’s body. He tucks Keith’s head under his chin and one of his hands moves to gently card through Keith’s hair. The silk strands fall through his fingers with each pass. The other rubs circles on his back. Despite Keith being a ghost, Lance feels his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. “Sorry; this has been happening lately. I think... it’s all catching up with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t apologize. Your situation sucks. I’m surprised you haven’t freaked out sooner,” Lance says. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry if my joke triggered it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Keith moves to wrap his own arms around Lance, he feels a little more solid, a little warmer in his touch. Lance doesn’t freeze anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s not you. Surprisingly, you make it better.” Keith grumbles the last part in annoyed acceptance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Lance laughs at the teasing remark, knowing it means Keith is coming back to himself. “I’m a delight to be around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tolerable at best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad you’re back to being an asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never stopped; you just grew to like it.” Lance opens his mouth to argue but Keith continues with a new train of thought. “You’re hurt,” Keith mutters, almost angrily, as his eyes catch onto the crime scene behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the floor lies a small trail of bloody footprints. “It’s just tiny cuts,” Lance replies, though his feet do sting quite a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me take a look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without waiting for a response, Keith effortlessly scoops Lance up, one arm wrapping around his back and the other under his knees. He bounces against Keith’s chest as they make their way to the bathroom, and he drops his head against Keith’s shoulder during the short journey. Once in the bathroom, Keith deposits him on the counter before flicking on the light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first aid kit rests on Lance’s lap as Keith kneels down to treat his feet. Every so often, Lance will hand him the appropriate item. When rubbing alcohol passes over the cuts, he almost kicks Keith in the head. Luckily, Keith’s grip remains strong. It becomes a pleasant chill that races up his legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to be more careful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance leans his body forward; his finger catches onto a strand of Keith’s hair falling into his eye and pushes it behind his ear. His lips twitch with a quiet smile when he replies with the truth. “I was just worried about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith sighs, lifting his head to stare up at Lance through his fringe. “I know. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime, Keith.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the Incident, as Lance dubs it, he realizes things need to change. Keith may be a ghost but he still needs to live. As far as Lance is aware, Keith has not ventured beyond his running route of a couple blocks and the local park. He barely has any idea how much the physical world has changed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The main goal is to prevent any more Incidents, and if they do occur, to not have Keith suffer through them alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So exploration it will be. Lance switched a few shifts around at the thrift store and diner and here he is critically gazing at his ghost roommate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance flicks down his sunglasses. “Really? You’re wearing that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nothing gaudy of course, but all Keith wears is a faded black t-shirt and ripped black skinny jeans in the middle of October. Where Lance himself has dawned a beanie to keep his head warm as well as his large olive green cargo jacket. At least Keith wears gloves, even if they are of the fingerless variety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Keith looks down at what he’s chosen to wear before returning with a glare. “It’s not like I’ll get cold or that someone will see me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>lucky you’re cute.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” Keith parrots back at him, mockery drowning his tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance winks. “Thank you; I’m glad you think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>complimenting you.” Keith’s face wrinkles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep telling yourself that ‘cause I’m irresistible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dryly laughing with a shake of his head, Keith allows Lance to have the last word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite Keith insisting that the elements won’t affect him, the wind does not hold back in its attack. His long hair whips around in the breeze, strands catching on the corner of his mouth and all around becoming a tangled mess even when he manages to tame it for a moment. Then the wind picks up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to watch the miserable scene much longer, Lance rolls a band off his wrist to present to Keith. “Hair tie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.” As he reaches for it, Keith’s gaze briefly flickers between the band and Lance’s short hair. Before he can open his mouth to express his confusion, Lance beats him to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My sister always leaves a few behind when she visits. Thought you might need them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to,” Keith says, finally taking the hair tie without much protest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And have to see that disaster of a mullet?” Lance scoffs and he lightly tugs on a lock of Keith’s hair before his hand is slapped away. “Please, I’m doing both of us a favor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And there it is.” Keith smiles. “Liar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance grunts, a sound that was definitely not supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>escape,</span>
  </em>
  <span> when Keith expertly ties his hair into a stubby ponytail that bounces against his neck. Keith arches an eyebrow at the scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Lance says again, brushing past the ghost, ignoring the slight extra chill, and continues on in their adventure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say anything.” Keith grins as he falls into step beside Lance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was all in your eyes, Keith, all in your </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Lance hears from someone not Keith. He turns his head to the left to find a person slowing to a stop, their eyes flicking from Lance to the empty space next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m on the phone,” he tells them when they send him a worried look. With a strained smile, the person moves on in a hurry and Lance releases a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice save. Totally don’t look like a weirdo now,” Keith jumps in. His lips are so close to Lance’s ear that he can feel them move with each word Keith says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t I tell you to shut up.” He whips his head back around to practically collide with Keith’s face. He stops just short, inches from accidentally punching Keith in the mouth with his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too bad you don’t control me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring this, Lance surveys their surrounding area. They haven’t quite made it into the downtown center yet, where all the best spots are, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything to do around here. “Is there any place you want to visit? Anything you remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure most of my hangouts don’t exist anymore.” Keith’s hand slips into his. “I’ll follow your lead, Boy Scout.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Lance looks down at their conjoined hands, his legs wouldn’t be strong enough to walk five steps. So he holds on tight and doesn’t make a peep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They mainly wander with no rhyme or reason. It’s a beautiful day and Lance is glad to be spending it under the sun and with his new supernatural friend beside him instead of in an old diner or thrift store.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Keith will light up in recognition of an old storefront only to be ultimately disappointed when he steps inside and realizes it has been fully renovated or that the shop has changed completely. After the second time this happens, Lance watching every minute change in Keith’s face, he thinks it was a mistake to show Keith the wider world. But then new things will catch his attention, mainly technology but even new books interest him when they walk into a bookstore at one point. He must have been a big reader when he was alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though the sun’s rays shoot through Keith’s body and many people walk through him only to receive a cold shiver, the smile on Keith’s face grounds him to reality. He absorbs everything around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Keith suddenly rushes his words and he disappears from Lance's side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long for Lance to find what has captured Keith’s undivided attention this time. A husky has been tied to the leg of a bench, presumably waiting for its owner to return from the store that has a clear no dogs allowed sign. What’s even more surprising than Keith completely losing his cool is that the dog seems to sense Keith’s presence. Its tail wags happily against the concrete and emits a happy whine when Keith kneels down next to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are the most adorable creature ever,” Keith coos, rubbing his hands up and down the dog’s sides. The husky becomes so addicted to the attention that it rolls onto its back; Keith immediately shifts his hands to rub the dog’s belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Placing his hands on his hips, Lance studies the sight before him. He pouts. “I thought I held the title for most adorable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even you can't compete with this face.” Keith gently lifts the dog’s head, whose blue eyes are set into slits before slowly opening to study the newcomer.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Lance crouches down and begins to pet the dog as well. Its tail beats faster against the concrete, pleased with the extra love it’s receiving. “If I had to give up my crown, I'm glad it's to you,” Lance tells the husky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But really, the person who holds the title now has to be Keith. Lance has never felt his heart become so light than when he watches Keith in this moment. So carefree, so happy, so beautiful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are things Lance has been slowly learning about Keith: his favorite </span>
  <em>
    <span>Star Trek</span>
  </em>
  <span> series is now </span>
  <em>
    <span>Deep Space Nine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’ll hum songs from </span>
  <em>
    <span>High School Musical</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he thinks Lance can’t hear him, he’ll write down lyrics on any surface available, including his forearm, he’s severely touch starved--whether a byproduct of being a ghost or that’s just how he is, Lance doesn’t know--and he absolutely loses it over dogs (as well as hippos, but it’s less likely to stumble upon them in a city).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should recheck the pet policy in his building. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should get going before he ODs on pets,” Lance says, placing a hand on Keith’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess.” Despite his agreement, Keith’s bottom lip juts out--and that clearly wins for most adorable today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wander around for a little while longer. Lance becomes less of a leader and more of a follower, though he doesn’t mind. Keith is having fun exploring; that was the point of this after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s hand wraps around Lance’s wrist and unexpectedly drags him over to the edge of one of the larger parks in the city. A few street musicians are scattered up and down the sidewalk. Some play covers while others play original compositions. Keith seems entranced by the sound. They blend in with the rest of the crowd to listen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the musician ends one of their songs, Keith nudges Lance’s shoulder. “That’s what you need to do,” he says, voice low as the crowd applauds. “You already have a built in audience too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance almost scoffs at the idea and shakes his head. While he has been focusing on his music more, taking it into the public is a whole other beast to deal with. “I doubt I’m good enough.” During the brief intermission, he takes the chance to walk up to the person’s guitar case to drop in a few dollars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re better than you think,” Keith replies when Lance returns and they start to head back home. “I’d tell you with complete honesty if you sucked, and you don’t suck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somehow that actually makes me feel better.” Lance chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t know how it’ll go if you don’t try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An idea sparks in Lance’s mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the next block looks empty, Lance switches to start walking backwards, facing Keith with his hands in his pockets. "Play with me. Even if they can't see you, it'll at least help my nerves." Then softly, Lance adds, “I know you miss performing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tilting his head in thought, Keith ends up shaking his head. “I don’t have my guitar,” Keith tries to argue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure we can find one for you to use.” The thrift store Lance works at has a section of used instruments. It won’t break Lance’s savings to purchase one. He can bring Keith with him on his next shift. It might be fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Keith concedes with a sigh, not that it took very long to convenience him, “but this is about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>bringing back your love for music. Don’t worry about me.”</span>
</p><p><em><span>I can’t help worrying about you,</span></em><span> Lance thinks but a pleased</span> <span>smile still blossoms on his face. “You’re the best, Keith.”</span></p><p>
  <span>A slight flush colors Keith’s pale skin. If he wasn’t a ghost, Lance would have assumed it was from the cold, but he knows better. Lance turns back around before blush overtakes him too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One week later, when the weather is clear but chilly, Lance unpacks his guitar and microphone stand from their respective cases. He chose a street corner that usually gets a high volume of traffic, and luckily, the cold seems to have scared away any of his competition. Not that he’s doing this for the tips, but at least any potential audience members won’t have their attention divided on more than one musician.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Lance gets an audience, that is, he’s still a little skeptical on that front. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I back out now, no one will know,” he mutters under his breath. Of course, Keith hears him. For once the bitterness of the air masks Keith’s cold touch, and Keith places two fingers under Lance’s chin to tilt his head up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do this; I believe in you.” While his face remains in a carefully neutral expression, his tone is gentle. Keith has his new used guitar slung across his back. Half of his long hair is tied into a tiny ponytail while the rest hangs to his shoulders and curls around his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really think so?” Lance replies in a quiet voice so no one milling around hears him. Can’t have that happen twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Crouching down to match Lance’s position, Keith places one hand on Lance’s cheek and presses a kiss onto the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s cheeks flush, mainly from the cold but also from <em>whathehellwasthat</em>. His mouth stays agape for a while before he claps his hands to snap himself out of the stupor. He ignores Keith’s stupid smirk. Standing, Lance brushes off his jeans, if only to bring some life back into his fingers and not to stop them trembling. He turns to face the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“H-hey,” Lance says into the microphone. A few people linger and he’s grateful for them. But he hopes his blush has died down. “I’m Lance, and I’ll be playing a few original songs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plucks the guitar strings, quickly testing if it remains in tune, before launching into the opening notes. Keith joins him without prompting.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bright flash catches on the corner of his eye; a gasp explodes from the small crowd. Their attention shifts to look beside Lance. He can’t help but do the same. Keith looks as normal as ever, black hair wild and expression determined, but without a doubt something has changed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘They can see you?’ Lance mouths to Keith, dumbstruck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Equally confused, Keith only shrugs but returns to the music; his hands never fumble, never miss a note. Those fingers slide across the strings. The crowd grows bigger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance leaves his guitar be as Keith takes over for the instrumentals and he focuses on singing. He grabs the mic from the stand, moving in time with Keith. They dance together, perform together. During the chorus, Keith shares the mic with him. Leaning in so close, Lance can almost kiss him, and Keith’s lips curl when he senses Lance staring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reaching up, Lance tucks a loose lock behind Keith’s ear, meting with that alluring gaze, before returning his attention back to the crowd. Keith laughs quietly when Lance spins before hitting the final word of the song. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breathing may be ragged, but his grin stretches across his face. Throughout the course of the performance, Lance had shed his jacket, and though sweat beads up on his skin, plastering his bangs to his forehead, the crisp fall air begins to seep back into his body. He refuses to shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the last guitar note strikes, Keith disappears in a similar bright flash. Vanishing from the public’s view again, he leaves Lance to face the mass of people they’ve accumulated over the couple of minutes. A moment of silence hangs over everyone before the crowd cheers. Their roars carry to the surrounding streets.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"A hologram, huh?" Pidge says. "Was I drunk when I built that for you or does something smell fishy?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone had ended up recording Lance’s performance; it went a little viral for a no name musician like him. Not enough for people to point him out at work or on the street but Hunk saw it in his YouTube recommendations and sent the video to all of them, including Lance’s family. Pidge flooded his phone with a bunch of questions; he did his best to deflect them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which included telling her that Keith is a hologram--in the moment, he’d been pretty proud of that lie. Now it’s biting him in the ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's the tuna," Lance replies dryly. He begins to put more effort into wiping down the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pidge rests her chin on the back of her hands. "Never mentioned your new boyfriend either."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not dating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rag bunches in Lance’s hand at Pidge’s words, his arm stalling in its movements. “Obviously,” slips out of him before he can spin another lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pidge arches a curious eyebrow and her mouth twists into a devious grin. Honestly, he wishes she would return her attention back to her schoolwork but apparently he’s more interesting than typing code--which isn’t that surprising when he thinks about it. “You gonna tell him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance shakes his head. “No, it won’t work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Lance McClain I know would never give up so easily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just not going to work, Pidge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm,” Pidge responds, not quite listening to his lame responses, before she cuts her eyes directly into Lance. In a moment of weakness he had looked at her and now he’s caught in her trap. “Because you’re a guy and he’s a ghost?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha--pfft where’d you get that crazy idea from?” Lance sputters, body jerking so hard that he almost knocks the pot of coffee off the counter. That would have been hell to clean up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a tech genius, remember? I know you can’t afford a fancy hologram machine like that with your salary.” Pidge grins, knowing that she’s backed him into a corner. “And I know my own work; that wasn’t it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But a ghost? Maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one who hasn’t been sleeping well--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not stupid, Lance,” Pidge interrupts. “You randomly ask about ghosts out of the blue, you show me a photo of a guy whose outline was somewhat translucent around the edges--which I originally assumed was photoshop--you’re suddenly in a band with said guy, who freakin’ appears and disappears like magic, and lately you get weird when I ask to hang out at your place.” She ticks off every marker on her fingers. “Did I miss anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god.” Lance drops his head onto the sticky counter and places his hands on the back of his neck. The linoleum fails to absorb his screams but no one else is in the diner to hear him anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And there’s the confirmation.” After a moment, Pidge pats him on the head. “At least you have a cute ghost haunting you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That makes it even worse,” he whines. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pidge laughs, but it’s a supportive laugh at least. “Hunk and I are definitely gonna have to vet him if you ever get off your ass and do something about your feelings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s head pops up in surprise, his moment of self-pity quickly fading. “You don’t think it’s weird?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would have forced you to see a therapist if I didn’t see that guy with my own two eyes. It’s fucking weird but you gotta introduce me at some point,” Pidge admits with complete honesty. The scheming look in her eyes has Lance making a mental note to make sure Keith doesn’t become her next science experiment or the subject of her thesis. Her gaze softens soon enough though. “Plus, you’ve been a lot happier these last few months; it’s not hard to put two and two together. He kinda already has my stamp of approval.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Pidge.” And Lance means it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keith has his head tilted back. He’s thrown himself across a chair, most of his body lying on the armrest as his feet swing in mid air at the other end. His guitar rests across his lap, and his fingers pick at a few strings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to my old bandmates? Did they disband?” He turns his head to watch Lance stock his cabinets from a grocery store run.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Placing one last canned item away, Lance makes his way over to Keith. “No, they became Galra, one of leading groups in indie rock in the late 80s. They played sold out concerts.” Lance quickly scrolls through his music to call up one of their better known albums. He hands the phone to Keith. He asks, “Why the sudden interest?” but is left unanswered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s thick brows narrow every time he taps on a song to play, only pausing for ten seconds before moving to the next one. When he reaches what Lance would argue was their biggest hit, Keith curses. “Those bastards stole my music.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting on the couch beside Keith, Lance removes the guitar and leans it against the wall. His mouth parts in surprise. “Their songs got me interested in music in the first place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>got you interested in music.” Before Lance even has a chance to argue, Keith reaches for his songbook. “Look.” The old journal is placed directly onto Lance’s lap as Keith hastily combs through pages and pages of songs. The evidence is there in Keith’s messy handwriting. Lance doesn’t know how to process it. “Those were all my lyrics; I wrote those songs. I don’t even remember sharing half of these with them. Someone must have gone through my stuff during practice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet after a moment Keith laughs, a short breath that escapes his mouth. His hands curl the journal, something he must have done a thousand times when he was alive based on the white creases, before it pops back. “Glad it worked out for them, I guess. Not like I could have done anything with the songs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still sound like you miss them?” Lance asks what he feels is the easiest question to start unraveling this mess. He’s not sure if it will be answered, but even a lack of response explains why Keith would rather live with Lance, a complete stranger back then, before considering rooming with (or haunting) one of his old bandmates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith stares at him for a moment before finding his reply. “They never liked me very much, but we were going places, you know? I could’ve been something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could still be something. You can still play for people. Might be a bit different but the gist of it...” Lance waves his hand as he trails off but hopes Keith understands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re still not sure why Keith appears to everyone when he plays music. Pidge has started to research but nothing conclusive has been unearthed yet. It opens a whole new door of possibilities… for both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, a smile begins to appear on Keith’s face, and he bumps his shoulder into Lance. “It’s much more fun playing music with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, seems like someone can’t get enough of me.” Lance’s mouth curls in amusement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re quite a catch; I’m surprised anybody can willingly let you go.” Keith leans in even closer and Lance can clearly spot the dark violet flecks in his eyes--otherworldly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaw dropping, Lance places a hand on his chest. “Keith Kogane, are you flirting with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not even attempting to deny it, Keith nods his head. A smirk catches onto the corner of his mouth. “I’m a little rusty; how’d I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bad for an old man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m only one year older than you,” Keith argues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gotta add on a few more now, darling,” Lance says. “But it’s not a surprise your mind’s starting to go. It happens to everyone when they reach a certain age.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning in again, so close that Lance now finds himself laying back on the couch, Keith smiles. “You’re insufferable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Part of my charm. That apparently you can’t let go of.” Lance smirks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I regret everything,” Keith replies. “Can I kiss you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About time, Ghost Boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Completing the gap, Keith kisses Lance. His hair tickles Lance’s cheeks, and his chapped lips slot against Lance’s mouth. Lance grins into the kiss as he matches Keith’s rhythm, guiding him to go deeper. Warmth spreads throughout Lance’s entire body</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s grip on Keith tightens, dragging him closer, and suddenly Keith is scrambling to find a proper hold. Unfortunately, he grabs Lance, but his body already tips sideways and his eyes pop wide open. They tumble off the couch. Keith remains solid enough that at least Lance is cushioned in the fall. His head bangs against Keith’s chest as he groans.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell was that?” Keith rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You fell for me.” Lance grins. “Real smooth, Mullet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rests his chin on his hands to gaze at Keith the best he can, who lifts his head an inch from the floor to glare. Those bangs shadow most of Keith’s expression though and the effect is lost on Lance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you pushed me,” he grumbles, head returning to the floor with a thud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You brought this on yourself.” Lance crawls forward--very awkwardly and he’s positive he almost knees Keith severely times--until he can place his hands on the floor near the sides of Keith’s head. He properly looks at the ghost. “You know, it wasn't a half bad kiss for someone who’s had no practice for three decades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s hands rest on Lance’s hips, fingers brushing against his stomach where his shirt riding up allows for free access. For once, the coldness of Keith’s touch never registers. “But you’re saying there’s room for improvement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess you’ll just have to kiss me again for the sake of practice. I know it must pain you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A sacrifice I am willing to make.” Before Keith can kiss him again, Lance beats him to it, laughing against his mouth. He can feel Keith’s smile and his heart thrums.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am considering writing a part 2 but it all depends if there’s interest? </p><p>In case I don’t write one, I headcanon that Keith meets Allura, who’s a 10,000 year old ghost goddess and is able to make Keith alive again. </p><p>And have no worries, part 2 of the knight/prince AU will now be my main focus. </p><p>If you're an 18+ year old US citizen please vote Tuesday!</p><p>And please leave comments and kudos:)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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